Don't shoot the unknown
by Nimphy-Ryuu-chan
Summary: 1916. Feliciano Vargas is an alpino, and he's absolutely not cut for the soldier life. He will eventually return to Italy for sure... unless an encounter with the enemy changes his plans. (NOT yaoi)


**EDIT, EDIT, LOOK HERE Y'ALL! This chapter has been changed to fit a new idea. Basically I made Feliciano and everyone else alpini, because I just love the alpini (especially their songs) and I know much more on their history than that of other parts of the army. So you may want to re-read this!**

**Hey people of the Hetalia community! I've been following you for some time now, lurking around and waiting for the right chance to strike you all... er, I meant to write a story for you all to enjoy. Of course, why would I say thing as silly as that? *plots in background***

**Forgive me for a long author's note, but I find it necessary. First, because I want to talk with you all. Mainly because today is an important day. August 4, 1914, after a German attack in Belgium and Great Britain's declaration of war, WWI had effectively started. Everyone was afraid, but everyone thought they would win. That this would be a lightning war. That everyone would be back by Christmas. **

**August 4, 2014, exactly 100 years later, we know that no one was back by Christmas. That the Great War killed 9.000.000 people. Death, misery, famine, we know it all. There was no honor, no victory, only much, much pain.**

**This is not an attack. Not when I know so little about it. Nor do I intend to make fun of it, because it would be ridiculous to make fun of so many deaths. This is not intended to be an adventure either, because as a wise man said (and those who recognize the reference... I love you all) death is no adventure. This is a story of friendship, and a feeble attempt to explore a part of human nature and expose war for what it is: something that should only exist in books. **

**So people, those of you that are looking for yaoi... go find another story. There are plenty out there for you. I won't say that you can view it as such, because I don't want you to. I'm writing friendship and how the good in each of us can win over prejudice. I will not use something such as WWI for you to have the pleasure of seeing your favorite OTP kiss between action scenes. **

**Warnings: Gore, blood, psychological pressure and damage, mostly in later chapters. We're talking war, not fluffy kitties and rainbows. May contain some racist remarks and/or depictions, but I aim to demonstrate how they are wrong.**

* * *

_"What a cruel thing is war: to separate and destroy families and friends, and mar the purest joys and happiness God has granted us in this world; to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors, and to devastate the fair face of this beautiful world." - Robert E. Lee_

His stomach was ripped open, the insides spilling out and covering the makeshift stretcher in fresh blood, yet Renaldo was still breathing, wheezing as the air struggled to enter his lungs. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets, blood was trickling down his chin and his hands were pressed on the wound, desperately trying to keep everything inside. The medic looked at him for barely a second before motioning to a random soldier. A gunshot later, the wheezing stopped.

"Feliciano. Stop staring at him."

A small soldier jumped at the order, quickly turning towards the speaker and trying to control his trembling. The other's eyes softened for a moment before assuming their usual coldness, but the older man just repeated "Stop staring at him. Come here."

Feliciano slowly obeyed, making his way across the red snow. The other soldier rested something on his head. Looking up, Feliciano recognized his hat.

"Keep that, little one, you don't want to become a _penna mozza_, do you?

"C...Cecchino..."

"Scopa o briscola?" he other interrupted, searching his backpack for something.

Feliciano stared for a while.

"You brought them here?" was all he could manage to blurt out in the end.

"Scopa o briscola?" Francesco repeated in a threatening tone, as if to ask _"And if I did?". _Feliciano gulped and murmured something incomprehensible. The elder soldier just sighed.

"Hey, everybody! You gonna stare at the rotting corpses all day or what? We're playing scopa over here!"

There was yelling, sobbing, cursing, vacant stares and a couple of shoes thrown in the man's general direction, but in a few minutes most of the company was too busy staring at their cards to argue. Almost no one played any attention at the game in the beginning, but between complaints ("Cecco, you napolitan bastard, these cards are weird!"), some cheating ("I saw you, you know!") and more cheating ("Try that again and I-ll cut you hand off!"), the cards were quickly forgotten and the men were fighting. Feliciano found it a suitable enough moment to run away, and quickly left the group without being seen.

He sat down in the snow, resting his head on his knees and trying to ignore the fleas and the cold.

He hated all this! The death, the pain, the... _all_ of it! He was no soldier, he was just a country boy, and he wanted to stay that way. His beloved mountains were now an ever-present reminder of death, the beautiful snow and majestic rocks threatening to fall on his head, hiding snipers and machine guns and God knew what else. He just wanted to go _home, _to tend to his farm and be in front of his cozy fire and have nonno tell him stories of a Venezia fighting for her freedom, and just be _safe!_

"Feliciano Veneziano Vargas, what the hell are you hiding?"

The Italian's heart stopped for a while, before he recognized Cecchino's gruff voice and relaxing.

"N-nothing."

"Nothing, right. You either talk now or I'll get you drunk and make you talk later."

"Nothing! Really!"

"You're still thinking about that, aren't you? You still want to desert?" The Napolitan squatted beside him, staring at the group of still-fighting soldiers. Feliciano frowned.

"Yes."

"They'll kill you. They'll catch you and have you shot."

"N-no, they won't!" Feliciano's convinced front seemed to falter.

"You know they will. They're stronger, have horses and you can't hide your tracks for the life of you."

"No! T-they can't! They'll think I'm dead... t-they won't catch me! I-I'll go back home and w-wait for t-this to end...!" Francesco's eyes gleamed with delight for a moment at seeing the old Feliciano emerging again.

"So that's how it is."

Feliciano's eyes widened in realizing his slip. "P-please Cecchino, don't tell anyone!"

The Napolitan grinned and motioned for him to continue. Feliciano frowned nervously, but obeyed the silent order.

"I-I'll go during an attack. They'll think I'm dead and..."

"What about food?" Francesco interrupted.

"W-wha... I..."

"Hiding from the enemy? Cold?"

"I..."

"Feliciano, which direction is Veneto?"

"South-east!"

"Where is south-east?"

No reply came.

"I figured. How the hell are you planning to go back? Will you ask for directions?!"

"Yes!"

Francesco stopped for a moment, taken aback by the convinced reply.

"What will you do there? They'll just arrest you before you even see your grandfather! There are military bases in Italy, you know!"

"T-they'll think I'm dead! It won't go that way!"

"You _will _be dead! You'll fall off a cliff or get shot by one of the goddamn cecchini! You'll die a white death or they'll catch you and have you shot for treason!"

"No, no, no, it won't go that way!" Feliciano whispered frantically.

"Yes it will, rintrunà! You're barely able to escape people that are _not_ looking for you, what the hell do you think will happen, that no one will come for you when they don't find the body? That the military personnel in Italy won't recognize a soldier? That they'll have mercy on you 'cause you're a kid?"

Francesco had raised his voice to the point of almost yelling. He looked quickly around, but everyone was too busy either fighting or sleeping to pay any attention.

"I-I just want to go home..." Feliciano whispered, visibly fighting back tears.

The elder soldier stared, and Feliciano held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity before finally lowering his eyes. Francesco sighed and stood.

"Is it really that bad here? Having a chance to stay alive? Fighting for Italy?"

The Venetian didn't reply, and Francesco turned around.

"Santo cielo, I don't even know why I'm trying to reason with you. Do what you want, kid. My lips are sealed."

Feliciano beamed. "Grazie, Cecco!" He yelled at the back of his companion. He smiled for a second, then frowned again.

He would need a better plan.

* * *

"You must be kidding me."

"Fucking old man, we're starving over here!"

"Malo, tell me you'll go get them."

An old man raised his hand to stop the storm of questions. "Yeah, I will. If I can, that is."

"What the hell are the damn _crucchi_ even doing, attacking that zone?"

"Cutting our food, idiot."

"I think the shitty geezer just pissed himself when he saw the fireworks!"

"Will you stop barking already, idiots?!" Everyone shut up instantly. Their captain might have usually been a nice man, but his orders demanded immediate obedience.

"We'll do like we've always done. _Arrangiarsi, alpini! _Rizzi, Malossi, Vargas and Verdi. You go get the rations. All the others, if I hear one more fucking word you'll be the first to empty the buckets tonight."

"Yes, sir." Malossi muttered, picking up his rifle from the ground. Francesco and a young brunette who couldn't have been nearly old enough to join the army were soon by the old man's side. Feliciano nervously bit his lip and prayed that no one noticed him, but he couldn't escape a direct command. He felt the others' eyes fixed on him, and as soon as he dared a glance up Malossi motioned for him to join. He slowly obeyed, climbing the trench with the others and throwing himself flat on the ground thanks to pure instinct.

A grenade wheezed past the point where his head had been just a few seconds ago. His breath hitched and he pressed himself harder against the snow, trying to slow his heartbeat.

"Vargas, you okay there?" Feliciano opened his eyes when he recognized Malossi's voice. The elder man was similarly flattened, seeking refuge from the mountain, and looking at him with a hint of worry. The Venetian nodded slowly and forced himself to breathe, mentally thanking his reflexes for saving him. He carefully raised his head, looking at the convoy with their rations. The old cook was visibly hiding behind the pot, jumping every time an explosion burst in the air, canned food and cigars abandoned a few meters away.

"Kid, you go ahead and test the way." Malo then ordered. Feliciano tried to prevent his breathing from going into hyperventilation and looked in the man's direction, praying that by 'kid' he meant Rizzi and _not him_.

Of course, Malossi's eyes were expectantly staring at Feliciano. He opened his mouth to protest, but a familiar accented voice preceded him.

"We need a small person, and you're the smallest here, except for the newbie. And we do not send newbies in enemy fireline, Feliciano, they'll piss themselves and it's too cold out here to stay all night with wet pants."

Rizzi looked almost indignated at the line, but Feliciano turned redder than a pizza.

"War diarrhea, kid. Happens to the best." Francesco reassured the brunette, but a side glance in Feliciano's direction told the young soldier that the phrase was meant for him. Reluctantly, he pushed himself up and started running.

In that moment, his survival instincts took control. His body moved without him even realizing. A soft, barely audible hiss, and he would be pressed against the ground. A black dot on the corner of his eye and he would jump to the side. There was a _something_ that conditioned his very existence in that moment, and Feliciano was reminded of the real reason Cecco and Malo didn't want Rizzi to go - the _something _came gradually, after many battles. Countless new recruits died because they didn't yet have that _something. _

Diving one last time, avoiding a stray bullet miraculously, he almost knocked the old cook out. Quickly thanking every saint out there for protecting him, he started gathering as many supplies as his frail arms could handle, jumping for cover every time he overheard a potentially fatal whirring. When the sack was full enough, he started scanning his surroundings. The trench was roughly a hundred meters away, his companions still flat on the ground. The enemy fire still persisted. To his back was nothing but a small forest that he knew gave way to a cliff after a few hundred meters.

He was about to start running back, when realization struck him.

It was _perfect!_

He was armed, had food and the perfect chance to escape. For a moment he paused, feeling guilty for abandoning everyone when they needed him, but immediately shook his head. Going back home was more important. He wouldn't get another chance like this.

He threw a glance at the three soldiers. Malossi and Rizzi looked impatient, but Francesco seemed to smell something weird. He had always had a good instinct. The Napolitan stared first at the forest, then at Feliciano. His eyes lit up in realization and he slowly shook his head, giving a warning glare at the younger soldier. It was all Feliciano needed to make up his mind.

He sprinted towards the forest.

* * *

**Whew! So, quick notes to explain the story. Please note that all my experience in WWI comes from books, both fictional and non-fictional. If anyone studies this stuff and notices something wrong, please, please, please tell me. You'll do me a huge favour. **

**-The characters are alpini. The alpini were a special force tasked with defending the mountains, but during the years they came to participate to attacks and peace missions, too. I would have made Feli a bersagliere (other force), as they're light infantry, while the alpini traveled with bags that easily weighted 50 kilos, but I know nothing about the bersaglieri.**

**-Italy entered the war in 1915. It should have been on the Central Empires side, but the Entente offered her (or him) Trentino, Trieste, Istria, German colonies, Protectorate over Albania and a ton of other stuff (although thanks to a diplomatic incident it didn't gain most of what promised). Plus, it would have been ridiculous for Italy to fight on Austria's side - there were some regions that considered themselves fully Italian, but were under Austrian control, and Italy couldn't get them if it didn't fight _against _Austria. So treason it is.**

**-Scopa and briscola are two Italian card games. Both of which I can't play, and as such gain very weird stares from my classmates when I say that I have no idea how to play scopa or what are those weird cards for. **

**-The soldier calling Cecco a Napolitan bastard and telling him his cards are weird is because scopa is traditionally played with two different decks: one from Napoli and the other from Milan. It's also a nod to the fact that Italy was pretty much a divided country before WWI in everything except for law. Different economy, different culture, different languages, a lot of conflicts. When soldiers from Sicily suddenly lived and fought side by side with ones from Lumbardy, the differences were quickly forgotten, the language adapted so it could be understood by everyone, and that small patriotic flame (though I think it was more the instinct of survival) held the men together. Awww. Well, the Alpini were mostly northerners, because that's where the Alps are. But still, for the sake of a united Italy, let's say Cecco is an immigrant. **

**-When the captain talks about 'emptying the buckets', it's because what was used instead of latrines had to be emptied, obviously. A pretty dangerous job, as you had to do it outside the trench, in full enemy view. What I read instead of an encyclopedia reported this, then commented "So, if the captain didn't like you, he could tell you to empty the buckets and hope you were shot". Reminds me of the History version of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy :D**

**- About Feli being Venetian: I struggled a lot with this. In my mind, N. Italy is from Milano, as that's generally considered the capital of northern Italy. Some have even proposed it as the new capital of Italy as a whole (but nothing beats Rome). I also considered him being from Turin, as what is now Italy was conquered by the zone that had its capital in Turin, so the city was capital of Italy for a long time. Then there's Florence, with its culture, and the Florentian dialect was essentially the basis for building what today is Italian. Trentino would have helped a few plot problems, and made it even more plausible for him to speak German. But eventually I settled on Venice because of "Veneziano".**

**Translations:**

_**Cecchino**_** - literally means sniper in modern Italian. In WWI the term still referred to the Austrians, as they were "Cecco Beppe"'s (Francesco Giuseppe, AKA Franz Joseph) men. Francesco becomes Cecco, which then assumes diminutive form and becomes Cecchino. That's why our Francesco is nicknamed Cecchino, but you're welcome to speculate on other crazy reasons. **

_**Penna**_**_ mozza_ - lit. "Severed feather". Term to indicate a dead alpino. When they were shot, it often happened that the feather on their hat was cut in two for a reason or the other.**

_**Arrangiarsi, alpini! -**_**something like "manage [the situation], alpini!" or "find a way for yourself". 'Arrangiarsi' was the unofficial motto of the alpini, as they often found themselves in trouble and had to find a way out by themselves, often improvising. **

**_Crucchi - _dispregiative term used to indicate German-speaking people. It was created for Austrians, but slowly came in use mostly for Germans. It's an Italianization of the word "kruk" (or was it "kruh"?), which means bread. Basically starving prisoners would ask their captors for bread, and the Italians invented the term "crucchi". Nowadays it's often used jokingly (me and another Italian writer call Germany "il Cruccone", but it's good-intentioned)  
**


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